So apparently the sense of smell is our strongest sense or the most memorable sense of our life. How I know this: I smell one thing and I can remember a whole conversation I had 5 years ago, word for word. I know it when it happens: a small whiff and it takes me back to that age and when I come back, I feel slightly dazed and lose balance. No, it's not like drugs, it's just...a sense.
Nowadays, I smell this ONE thing and I'll go through every single moment, every memory, every event that had happened from the start, even before that. Everything leading up to it. Like a hound on a trail, I haven't missed a single bit of detail so far. Sometimes I'll get frustrated: Why? Why is all this coming back to me? Why? Maybe, I'll get depressed or angry when I ask myself, What if? or How come? then all hell breaks loose inside. An earthquake. Big enough to crack something but small enough not to make a ripple on the surface. But we all know that small things lead up to something big.
Eventually we have to take it out on something. If you're an alcoholic, you drink. If you're a violent kind of person, you'll take it out on someone or something. Go to drugs, smoke, drink, go for a drive if you're old enough, talk to a friend.
But what if there's no one there. What if you have to tick that "none of the above" box? What else can you take it out on?
What about taking it out on yourself?
This excerpt is from a book I read a while back, Bleed for Me by Michael Robotham. It's a psychological thriller concerning a retired detective and a murder case but at the same time, there are some personal things that need dealing with.
Sienna’s Diary
i should start by telling you my name, although it’s not really important.
names are just labels that we grow into. we might hate them, we might want
to change them, but eventually we suit them.
when i was very young i used to hide in the dirty laundry basket
because i liked the smell of my father’s work clothes and it made me feel
closer to him. he used to call me his ‘little red riding hood’ and would chase
me around my bedroom growling like a wolf until i collapsed into giggles. i
loved him then.
when i was eleven or twelve i took a stanley knife from my father’s
shed and pinched a roll of flesh on my inner arm before slicing it open. it
wasn’t very deep, but enough to bleed for a while. i have no idea where the
idea came from, but somehow it gave me something i needed. a pain on the
outside to match the inside.
i don’t cut often. sometimes once a week, once a month, once i went
for six months. in the winter i cut my wrists and forearms because my school
blazer will cover the marks. in the summer i cut my stomach because a onepiece will hide the evidence.
once or twice I’ve needed stitches but i managed to fix myself, using a
needle and thread. i bet that makes you shudder but it didn’t hurt so much and
i boiled the needed first.
when i bleed i feel calm and clear-headed. it’s like the poison inside me
is dripping out. even when i’ve stopped bleeding, i finger the cuts lovingly. i
kiss them goodnight.
some are new cuts on virgin skin. others are old wound reopened.
razor blades and stanley knives are best. they’re clean and quick. knives are
clumsy and needles don’t produce enough blood.
you want to know the reason? you want to know why someone would
bleed in secret, it’s because i deserve it. i deserve to be punished. to punish 4
myself. love is pain and pain is love and they will never leave me alone in the
world.
every drop of blood that flows from my veins is proof that i’m alive.
every drop is proof that i’m dying. every drop removes the poison inside me,
running down my arms, dripping off my fingers.
you think i’m a masochist.
you think i’m suicidal.
you think you know me.
you think you remember what’s it’s like to be fourteen.
you think you understand me.
you don’t.
i bleed for you
It's strange, yeah? But it describes one of the reasons why people harm themselves. For some people, they'll just read this and walk off thinking, What on Earth is going on here? Is this girl crazy or something? Having already been through this, I – and a few others – can relate easily. Some people are still in that zone, not even trying to get out but others know where they are but are struggling to climb out of that hole. Some people have recovered and are going strong but others are resisting the urge to fall back into the same patterns. Like me. I'm steadily winding backward into that horrid phase of self-harm.
Some people don’t know this. My friends, most of my family, acquaintances, etc. don’t know that I commit self-harm. 93 cuts. The last time I cut myself was around mid-September last year. For once, I’ll say it straight. There was one night I was so down and out, I slit my wrist 20 times in 2 minutes. I don’t know how I managed but…I guess it was just how I dealt with things.
There are people to help. I wish someone could've helped me out of the hole I so deeply dug out for myself. Everyone has their moments. Whether they're good or bad, we all do. . But for now, I guess that's enough said so I'll leave you with a little poem I found from Mitch Albom's 'Have a little Faith'. Here it is:
I walked a mile with Pleasure;
She chatted all the way;
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow;
And ne'er a word said she;
But, oh! The things I learned from her;
When Sorrow walked With me.
- Robert Browning Hamilton
A la Prochaine.
